A Hug A Day Keeps The Werewolves Away
by rhythm junkie
Summary: Derek is a Free Hugger. Stiles does not want to be hugged thank you very much. This is AU Scott is not a wolf and neither have met Derek before and Laura is alive.
1. Chapter 1

**This is an AU in which Scott is not a werewolf and neither boy knows Derek. Also Laura is still alive. Because.**

**I don't know what to say about this one other than I was in Edinburgh and some Free Huggers were running about and I thought 'what if...'**

**This is unbeta'd and basically written as an exercise in cheering myself up. I'm not entirely sure it isn't far too ridiculous for public consumption to be honest.**

**Nothing is mine.  
**

* * *

Stiles is still staring, open-mouthed, and he knows what they're seeing must be startling because Scott isn't even trying to stop him, just squinting at the drama himself. They weren't the only ones staring - the little scene playing out before them had garnered quite a crowd.

"Dude," Stiles whispers, elbowing Scott for emphasis, "Are the Free Hug people really fighting?"

Scott nods although fighting seems too tame a description for the terrifying, tense stand-off they're witnessing.

Two of the Free Hug people, decked out in orange trousers and orange t-shirts with** FREE HUGS** emblazoned across the front and back, are nose to nose. They look eerily similar so Stiles assumes they must be related. The girl, shorter and slimmer than the guy, is somehow more intimidating and that boggles Stiles mind because the guy? Holy shit, the guy is like an underground biker gang wet dream.

"Yeah, you know you said that out loud right?" Scott murmurs from the corner of his mouth, eyes still fixed firmly ahead. Stiles shrugs although he knows Scott isn't looking.

"…you're doing this."

The girl's tone is so final that Stiles has the urge to hug someone, like uncontrollable. His feet move forward and everything.

"Should we be hugging?" Scott asks in a voice that sounds horrified by what it's saying and Stiles is relieved he isn't the only one reacting to…whatever that was.

The Man-Mountain sets his jaw, arms folded tight across his chest, and Stiles is sure he's gonna refuse and they're going to see this girl beat down a man three times her size, when he tilts his head. Man-Mountain's eyes are on him and yep, he is striding angrily in Stiles direction. Scott honest-to-god _whines _at his shoulder.

"Free hug." Man-Mountain says, staring at Stiles like he wants him to disappear under the power of his eyebrows alone.

"Dude, was that even a question?" Stiles stammers, clawing desperately for time to…do something!

The guy snorts like he's a moron, grabs his belt and Stiles is in the air, feet dangling, pressed against a solid chest wrapped in orange material. And Stiles really means wrapped. Man-Mountain's arms are tight, one around his waist and the other diagonal across his back, securing him in place with zero wiggle-room.

"I kind of thought people were meant to approach you," Stiles mumbles as best he can into Man-Mountain's shoulder but receives no reply except a brief tightening of arms that has his ribs creaking.

"Oh my God, seriously?!"

Stiles plummets to the ground and bounces once, teeth rattling, before settling on his ass at Man-Mountain's feet. He looks up, betrayed.

"Not cool, man."

Man-Mountain actually looks remorseful. If remorseful looks the same as uncomfortable and pissed. The girl he'd been fighting with earlier, in complete contrast, looks positively gleeful.

Scott reaches down to help Stiles up but before Stiles can grasp Scott's offered hand, Man-Mountain makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl. Not a word of a lie, an actual growl. Scott cringes back but Stiles? Well Stiles kicks out, clacking Man-Mountain right on the shin. Man-Mountain groans deep in his chest and bares his teeth at Stiles. Bares. His. Teeth.

"Oh hell no!" Stiles scrambles up and pokes a finger into Man-Mountain's chest, possibly sustaining a fracture because concrete much? "You are the worst Free Hugger ever! I think you need to go back to hug-school dude. I'd offer but you're kind of intimidating and horrible and I really don't want to."

Man-Mountain looks sort of upset but the Free Hug girl? She legit doubles up laughing. And keeps laughing. And laughing. At one point Scott uses his mad vet skillz to make sure she hasn't sustained a freaky concussion dealing with Man-Mountain's iron will.

"Okay we're done," Stiles says, dragging Scott away by his elbow.

"Don't want a parting hug?" the girl calls, wiping tears from her eyes, _actual tears_, and opening her arms. Man-Mountain is glaring at her like she's shit in his breakfast and Stiles has enough crazy to deal with without taking on any more.

"I am off hugs for the foreseeable future," he calls back and drags Scott along faster as the girl cracks up again and yeah, that was _definitely_ a growl.

**0o0o0o**

Stiles is in the cereal aisle contemplating whether his dad's heart would be able to withstand cocoa-puffs or if he was just going to have to resign himself to a future of Weetabix, when a shadow blocks out the light. Man-Mountain is staring down at him, frowning in a way that suggests he really wished he was anywhere but where he was.

"Oh, it's you," Stiles says, voice flat. To his horror, Man-Mountain _reaches _for him.

"No thank you," Stiles squeaks, scrambling backwards and almost ending up ass-first in an old ladies cart. "No free hugs today!"

Man-Mountain frowns harder, looking like he might actually argue the point and how is this Stiles life exactly? Force-hugged in the cereal aisle? Where anyone can see? And tell his dad? Not happening.

"You're not even wearing your official hugging uniform!" Stiles points out the only thing that pops into his brain, "That's gotta be against free hug policy."

Man-Mountain actually stops. Stops. Like what Stiles has just spouted is reasonable. Then he's nodding and backing away and Stiles is too relieved to be freaked out. He'll freak out later. Over a nice bowl of Weetabix.

**0o0o0o**

"Uh, dude?" Scott whispers, except his whisper is a deafening thing that has Stiles jerking away. "Isn't that the Free Hug guy?"

Stiles looks up and sure enough Man-Mountain is standing in the parking lot, next to Stiles jeep, wearing his orange Free Hug t-shirt and looking aggressively non-huggable.

"Shit!" Stiles swears, glancing around panicked. "Has he seen me? Please tell me he hasn't seen me. I need to get out of this parking lot. Can I get a lift?"

Scott glances at his bike which, yeah, Stiles is _never_ fitting on, and then back at Man-Mountain.

"I think he knows you're here," Scott says and he sounds petrified. Stiles looks over to where Man-Mountain is making his jeep look like a Mini and sees why because Man-Mountain looks _pissed, _eyebrows all pulled down and mouth all snarly. And yep, he is staring straight at Stiles. Great.

"I hate you," Stiles hisses at Scott, who looks bemused, before stomping over to his jeep, stopping toe-to-toe with Man-Mountain who, shit, is waaay taller than Stiles remembers.

"Don't you dare," he snaps, slapping Man-Mountain's grabby hands away. "This is not normal behaviour. Not for Free Huggers. Not for anyone. You will go away and stop trying to force your hugs on me right now."

Man-Mountain just glares at him, unmoving. Just as his hands twitch in the general vicinity of Stiles person, Erica appears from nowhere, hurtling towards them like the world's sexiest meteorite.

Stiles isn't entirely sure what happened with Erica, one minute she was this kinda wallflower chick and the next she was violently hot, but he's putting it down to puberty being kind. Very kind.

"I'll take a free hug," she purrs, only hug sounds like something that makes Stiles ears flush brick red and Man-Mountain is doing something complicated with his face and Erica…well, Erica has just veered sharply to the right and some freshman kid is looking delighted at an armful of vixen and her ample bosom. Stiles has no idea what just happened.

"What just happened?"

"We're doing this," Man-Mountain growls in answer and tugs Stiles in, lifting and wrapping him up in one motion until all Stiles can feel is body heat that is no his own and soft breath against the muscle of his neck.

The parking lot empty is slow going this particular evening, which yeah has a lot to do with kids stopping to gawk and Stiles dangling in Man-Mountain's arms, but it's still long after the last car has peeled out, no doubt to go gossip about Stiles, before Man-Mountain lets him down.

"Well this has been weird and creepy dude," Stiles says, trying to unwrinkle his thoroughly wrinkled shirt, "Let's never, ever do it again."

"Derek." Man-Mountain replies.

"Uh, what exactly did I ask?" Stiles says, baffled for once.

"Don't call me dude," Man-Mountain says, jaw weirdly clenched, "Derek." And walks away.

"That wasn't a complete sentence!" Stiles calls after him because what is he supposed to do with that?

**0o0o0o**

"No." Stiles says, holding up a hand, "Absolutely not."

Derek, looking even less happy than all the previous times they'd met, keeps wading towards him with a grim look on his face and determination in his eyes. Stiles tries to skid out of reach but water is hard to manoeuver through, especially when you don't want to risk turning your back on someone to properly utilise your swimming skills.

"Is he okay?" Stiles hears Allison's worried voice from the poolside and he turns his head to catch her eye and hopefully convey that no, he is _not_ alright thank you very much and a little bit of lifeguard saving would go down quite handy right now if it wasn't too much trouble, but is distracted by the way Lydia is glaring at him.

Stiles had spent every weekend and summer at this pool since turning fifteen in the hope that Lydia Martin, hot girl extraordinaire and youngest lifeguard ever, would realise her dormant love for Stiles. Instead he was getting a frighteningly focused Derek forcing his body through water towards him like the laws of physics didn't apply, and Lydia Martin glaring jealous daggers _at_ him instead of _over_ him.

As Derek reaches him, of course Free Hug girl appears and of course she is absolutely dying of laughter. Dying.

"Is that…" Allison has the good grace to trail off but oh no, not Free Hug girl.

"Waterproof mascara!" she screeches, now on her knees and yes Derek has FREE HUGS scrawled across his naked chest and Stiles is viciously hoping Scott will come through as a bro and kick her into the pool but he's Scott so he just stands looking alternately confused and wistful (at Allison, not Stiles thankfully - Stiles can only deal with one ball-withering problem at a time).

"Hi!" Free Hug girl calls between laughing bouts and Stiles glowers in response, "I'm Laura! I'm looking forward to getting to know you better!"

"Couldn't wear the uniform in the pool," Derek grunts, finally reaching Stiles and hauling him in by his neck, his neck!, and pressing them together thigh to chest, which short-circuits Stiles brain enough that it can't explode over the verbal bomb Laura just threw at him.

"This is taking it a bit far dude," Stiles complains from where his spine is being forced to bow to accommodate Derek's very firm squeeze.

"Don't call me dude."

**0o0o0o**

"No more hugs in public places," Stiles snaps from the top of the library stairs. Derek is standing at the bottom, familiar orange shirt straining across his chest, and yes _this_ explains why no one could find a librarian and Stiles had just had to fight through a gaggle of book-and-ink smelling women in the lobby to reach the exit.

"What." Derek replies, shifting towards Stiles with all the terrifying intent of a slow-moving iceberg.

"I. Said. No." Stiles repeats, smacking Derek on the forehead with the hardback copy of Anna Karenina he had just effectively stolen. He's blaming Derek for his foray into crime.

"Why." Derek look of confusion seems genuine, brows all twisty and eyes all crinkly. If Stiles didn't know better, he would swear Derek was edging pout territory.

"Okay first? Learn to ask a question," Stiles starts because man that was annoying, "and secondly, because someone is going to tell my dad, the sheriff, that his son keeps getting hugged within an inch of his life, in public, by some delinquent looking dude and then he is going to ask me questions. Questions, Derek. That I have no answer for. And _then_ he is going to get mad because I have been allowing myself to be hugged by a dude I don't know. In public. Oh my god, I've been getting hugged by some dude I don't even know!"

Derek's face has sort of been collapsing inward at Stiles rant and by the end he looks more confused than Scott that time they talked about Schrodinger's Cat in Chemistry. The teacher had sent him to the nurse in the end.

"Derek Hale," he throws out in a voice that suggests this must be the answer to all of Stiles half-panicked ranting, and hauls Stiles bodily down the rest of the stairs.

"I said no more public hugging," Stiles reprimands faintly but Derek just grabs his arm and steers him towards the parking lot.

"Just walking you to your car, no hugs involved."

And there are no hugs except…except Derek seems kinda handsy, fingers grazing Stiles neck, across his shoulders, down his back. At one point Stiles is pretty sure Derek touches his ass but when he snaps his head up to yell at him, hands are on his shoulders and Derek's face is so blank that it must have been a figment of his scarred imagination.

**0o0o0o**

"Fucking fuck a duck!" Stiles yelps, flinching violently when he closes his bedroom door and finds Derek, the creepiest Free Hug dude to ever hug, just loitering behind it like it's some public right of way. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You said not in public." Derek replies like _Stiles_ is the one being unreasonable and yeah, it seems like the Free Hug guy has broken into Stiles bedroom to hug him. And honestly? Stiles doesn't know how to process that other than to be flattered because before now Stiles hadn't known anyone who would break a nail to hug him never mind break into an actual house where people lived. Where the sheriff lived.

But still…

"No." Stiles says in his firmest voice, and Derek freezes halfway across the carpet, arms already partly extended. "This is not happening. I do not want any more damn hugs."

Derek looks torn between listening to what Stiles is saying and just going for it anyway. Stiles can see the way his brain is sort of grinding between the two options and breaks out his sternest stern face.

"You need to smell like me," Derek grits out and wait, what now?

"That is not even a thing that makes sense." Stiles dead-pans. "The words you are saying have no meaning. Do you understand this?"

Derek glowers, then sort of half steps forward _and_ away then, whilst Stiles poor brain is trying to process that one, beelines for Stiles drawer and is partway through trying on all of his shirts before Stiles can stop him.

"How is this normal?!" Stiles yells, trying to tug a shirt of out Derek's hand to prevent him doing whatever the hell he thinks he is doing, but Derek merely glares balefully at him and body blocks him. Stiles cannot get his arms far enough around Derek to stop him stretching out all of Stiles awesome shirts with his Yeti shoulders and Derek doesn't stop until Stiles drawer is empty. Derek is a dick.

And then Stiles is seeing Derek's dick because he has dropped trou and reaching for Stiles underwear drawer. Stiles trips from the room with his eyes shut and hides in the kitchen until Derek is done.

**0o0o0o**

"You know that guy is following you, yes?" Allison asks, craning over her shoulder at where Stiles knows Derek will be dogging their steps, a respectful twenty feet away.

"Yeah," he sighs because what else can he say? Yes Allison, I am aware that I have the world's least subtle stalker on my trail, staring after me like the saddest puppy in the shop window, and I am totally cool with all of this.

"Okay then."

For two weeks Stiles has been catching glimpses of that orange Free Hug t shirt everywhere he's gone. And by glimpse, he means an eyeful because Derek? Not the least bit shy in letting everyone know that Stiles is the big bad bogeyman denying him even one little hug. The woman in the video store won't even serve him anymore, just looks at Derek lurking behind the romantic comedies with a pitying expression then tuts at Stiles and pretends she can't see him. He doesn't even dare brave the library.

"So what you gonna do about it?" Scott's tone is neutral but Stiles catches his eye cutting back from Derek's pathetic face and sighs dramatically.

"You too, Scott?" he demands, betrayed, but Scott just shrugs helplessly.

"He looks like you kicked over his sand castle," he whispers, sounding stricken on Derek's behalf, and Allison squeezes his shoulder like she's proud of him. Stiles hates his friends.

He twirls on his feet and marches over to Derek, who doesn't even have the decency to pretend he wasn't following them. Worst. Stalker. Ever.

Stiles opens his arms and Derek grabs him up fast like he's afraid Stiles might change his mind and kick him in the balls instead. Not fast enough though, because Stiles still catches that smug expression the free-hugging idiot's face slides into.

"Hey!" he admonishes but gets only a nose nuzzled into his neck in response. He can _feel_ Allison and Scott's heart-eyes from twenty feet away the dirty betrayers. "Don't get comfortable."

"Laura wants to know when you're coming for dinner."

Fuck everything.

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This is complete nonsense. i don't even know why you guys are reading this. Seriously. It is utter silliness.**

**Nothing is mine.**

* * *

"Well, aren't you a delightful little treat."

Stiles squeaks when a warm hand grips the nape of his neck, and it is definitely not Derek's hand and fuck his life for knowing what Derek's hand feels like. Clearly his Stockholm Syndrome issues are worse than he initially imagined. Like that's even a surprise now. Stiles twists out of the grip and turns to face the source of this new, unwanted attention.

An older guy, correction a _hot_ older guy, is smiling wolfishly at him and yeah, that was a definite eyeing up of Stiles body. Stiles is not down with that at all. One stalker is quite enough thank you very much.

"Well, aren't you a lechy old man," Stiles bitches back, trying to shake off the goosebumps the guy's touch has left on his skin. The guy tips his head back and laughs like Stiles has performed a particularly impressive trick and his eyes, when they return to Stiles face, are warm with pleasure and something not unlike speculation.

"I can see why Derek likes you," Lechy old man says in a way that suggests the only thing stopping him from leering is his gentlemanly good manners. Then he tilts his head, finger to his chin like some carving art lovers cream their pants over. Lechy probably things he looks intelligent. Stiles thinks he looks like a ponce.

"I wonder what you see in him," Lechy continues, tapping his index finger on his bottom lip in a rhythm that Stiles can't help but follow with his eyes. It's the ADHD in him, okay? "He _is _easy on the eye but so terribly rough around the edges. Hmm, perhaps that's the appeal?" Stiles narrows his eyes and Lechy chuckles before leaning in, alarmingly close. "If you decide someone a little more mature, a little more…worldly wise is to your tastes, well…" Lechy trails off, letting his fingertips slide the length of Stiles collarbone over his shirt.

"Stiles," Derek says from somewhere behind Stiles left shoulder and Stiles automatically takes a step backwards, Derek matching his movement until they're shoulder to shoulder. "This is Uncle Peter."

"Hello Uncle Peter," Stiles parrots, and he can't even be embarrassed because all his clothes could drop off right now and an angel in the form of Lydia Martin could come down and announce every single dirty thought Stiles has ever had to the room at large and it _still_ wouldn't make the awkwardness of this moment any worse.

"Quite the firecracker," Lechy Uncle Peter says to Derek, honest to God _winking_, and Derek is looking like he might turn green and explode out of his clothes with rage at any minute.

"Dinner," Laura announces, stepping neatly between a vibrating Derek and the lechiest Uncle to ever lech and Stiles would kiss her except he's pretty sure Derek will actually lose his shit at any sudden movement.

Dinner passes mostly in silence, broken by Laura's occasional attempts to start a conversation, Derek staring death daggers at Lechy Uncle Peter, and Lechy Uncle Peter rubbing his foot against anything Stiles whenever Derek is momentarily distracted.

"You'll come back soon?" Laura questions at the door as Derek drags Stiles down the drive and practically throws him in the passenger seat of the Camaro. Stiles smiles and waves at her but does not commit to anything because it will be a cold day in hell before he subjects himself to that bag of crazy again. He's pretty sure Lechy Uncle Peter is watching them drive away from the dining-room window.

Explains where Derek got his creeperness from.

**0o0o0o**

Stiles has new appreciation for mothers with toddlers because fuck if Derek isn't like the biggest, clingiest toddler there has ever been. Steering them to the right, out of the way of a harried looking mother of the type he was just thinking about, Derek draped all across his back like some sort of bonobo on steroids, he gives her a sympathetic, knowing look. She returns his attempts at bonding with a spectacular bitch-face.

Stiles is recoiling from the burn, which is the only reason he's looking down the street and spots the squad car.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"What? What's wrong?" Derek is immediately on high alert, trying to pull Stiles behind him whilst hunting out the threat and Stiles does not have the time for Derek's particular type of brain damage right now.

"In!" he hisses, herding Derek into the first open shop he finds and _of course _it would be the video store. The woman behind the counter actually squeals when she sees them and Stiles is pretty sure Derek flinches but he's too distracted to rag on Derek over it because video store woman is running out from behind the counter and Derek, still on quivery high alert, is doing a complicated thing with his arm that Stiles just _knows _will go badly for the overly-excited woman approaching them so he does the only thing he can think of. He elbows Derek in the balls.

Derek's whole body folds down and, damn, he's heavy but Stiles has no time to worry about that because they are being tackled into some sort of threesome hug. Is that a thing? Well, it is now, because that is what they are doing. In the middle of the video store at 5.30pm when Stiles is supposed to be shopping for dinner.

"I knew you guys would work it out!" Video store lady is gushing, dragging them further into the store and Stiles thinks he should be correcting her very very false assumptions, but Derek is grunting in his ear and Video store lady has launched into a story – something about a missing shoe and a lost love and an orange? It's hard to concentrate with Derek huffing heavily onto his neck like that.

When they escape twenty minutes later, Derek is clutching a copy of some film called The Notebook that Video store lady seems to think that they'll just really 'get'. Later that night, Stiles thinks that two hours of his life he'll never get back. Derek is asleep, head in Stiles lap, arms wound around his waist, heavy and warm and, most importantly, non-Notebook soiled.

Bastard.

**0o0o0o**

"So," Stiles starts, very aware of how close Derek's hands are to his junk. Yeah, hips are hips (and didn't they have an argument about _that_ and proper hugging etiquette) but Stiles is positive Derek's hands are slipping closer to obscene territory every day. "I never see you in town any more. Your sister is there, but never you."

Derek doesn't say anything, nothing new there, but he goes worryingly still.

"What do you mean?" he says after several minutes of pained silence. Silence that Stiles does not break because he's been conditioning himself not to fall for Derek and his caveman approach to conversation. Stiles rocks.

"Well, all the other Free Huggers are there but you never are."

Derek goes stiller and Stiles didn't even think that was possible without slipping into some sort of negative movement zone and that just makes his head hurt to think about.

"You know, since you're a Free Hugger and all. Aren't you letting the side down or something?" Stiles babbles 'cos yeah, he's been conditioning but he ain't a saint and Derek is _really_ still.

"You," Derek starts then stops and swallows, _swallows_!, before continuing. "You want us to hug other people?"

"Uhhh," Stiles sort of stutters because what? Is this a thing? "Are we not supposed to be?"

Derek lets go of him. Let's go and gets up, moving to the other side of the room and Stiles is staring because what exactly is happening right now and why is Derek wearing that expression, the one that suggests the video store lady is gonna be barring Stiles for life.

"You've been hugging other people?" Derek's voice is _hurt _and his face is just so betrayed and Stiles stomach feels like it's making a solid attempt to eat itself.

"Well yeah," he admits, wincing at the way Derek's face just sort of crumples, "I'm kinda tactile dude, if I stopped hugging then my Dad would notice and we've already talked about the questions that I do not want to be answering, and Scott would definitely notice even if he is only a bit more observant than a rock and Allison, well Scott would be offended if I didn't hug her and dude why are you grinning?"

Derek is honest-to-God grinning maniacally at him, his whole face just lit up with it. Stiles takes a moment to just _whoa_ 'cos Derek rocks the sullen vibe but genuine happiness glows from him in a way that makes Stiles brain break with the amount of sappy, embarrassing, downright Notebook-worthy similes it spews. Stiles near chokes on his tongue trying to keep them in his mouth where no human can ever hear them.

"Of course you hug your pack," Derek agrees, eyes happy as he strides forward and grabs Stiles right out of the chair and into a rib-cracking embrace. His face is buried right in Stiles neck and he's sort of snuffling, which is a thing that they apparently do now and that has started to make Stiles feel…tender in places. It's a worrying development but Stiles brain has snagged on something that is enough of a distraction to avoid the blush that wants to devour his skin.

"Pack?"

Derek's arms go loose then tight, which is _interesting_, but before Stiles can push it further Derek blatantly gropes his ass and the question is lost in flailing and hot embarrassment and a long, drawn-out, half-shouted lecture on what is and is not appropriate behaviour from a Free Hugging stalker. For the life of him Stiles cannot figure out why Derek looks so relieved during Stiles rant.

Weirdo.

**0o0o0o**

"I want to hug in public."

Stiles, who is watching Laura laughing and running around the backyard with some of the other Free Huggers, playing something that sort of resembles touch football, is a little slow on the uptake but as soon as his brain catches up, he flails and falls right off the porch steps.

"What?" he screeches as the curly-haired Free Hugger is helping him up, which is weird because Stiles is sure he was forty feet away five seconds ago and also weird because he, like the other Huggers that aren't Laura, just won't make eye-contact with him. Like at all.

Derek is glaring at Curly who backs off immediately and Stiles reaches out, smacking Derek on the nose, making him flinch, and he doesn't bare his teeth but he's definitely _thinking _about it.

"Don't glare at Curly like that," Stiles snaps because possessiveness is not his flavour of kink, "He was helping me up, which is more that you were doing."

"Isaac," Derek answers then starts putting his hands on Stiles, _exactly_ where Cur…Isaac's hands had been. Stiles huffs but takes it because they have been here before and Derek gets a wicked pout on when he thinks he's been wronged and Stiles has other fish to fry right now. When Derek has calmed down, Stiles twists on the porch until he's cross-legged and staring at the side of Derek's face. Derek immediately hauls him closer, the creeper.

But whatever because, "Are you high?" Stiles demands, peering at Derek's eyes under his thundercloud eyebrows, "I assume you are because I know we've discussed my father, the sheriff, who asks questions and who needs to know _none of this crazy_."

Derek looks…extremely put out. His face is one big rainy day. Stiles does not understand how any of this is his life.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Derek grits out, like it's actually painful for him to speak right now and…just…what.

"Ashamed of my stalker whom I am apparently enabling?" Stiles asks, sarcasm making Derek scowl more, "I cannot possibly think what you mean by that."

"I meant," Derek says, voice like granite, "about having me as a boyfriend. Am I so bad that you have to hide me from your pa…from your Dad?"

Now, see, Derek thinks Stiles is stupid because he tried to cut it off but there is that pack word again, and Stiles would love to pick him up on that but he's far too busy having a stroke.

"You think we're boyfriends?" he squeaks, partly because saying that out loud is mortifying and makes him feel like he's a fourteen year old virgin but mostly because _Derek_!

"You think we're not?" Derek counters and touché. Stiles sputters because there are so many things that need to be said and not enough mouth to form them all at once, so he has to content himself with open-mouthed staring at Derek who is looking back at him like he's the world's dumbest mouth-breather and that is just not on.

"Fuck you, we are _not_ dating," Stiles hisses, furious and embarrassed and even though he's having a melt-down of epic proportions, he can _still_ see the way everyone in the yard has stopped and aren't looking at them but have their heads tilted just so and what the hell is going on with everything?

Derek opens his mouth, to refute Stiles assumes, but he jumps up and points at Derek accusingly, and whatever crazy is showing in his eyes makes Derek snap his mouth closed, fingers tightening on his thighs.

"Dating implies actual dates, which we have not had," Stiles half-yells and yes, thank you, he knows he's half-yelling but he's freaking out so sue him okay? "Dating implies flirting, which we have not done. It implies a conversation and, oh I don't know, CONSENT, which has not happened. It implies bases and sex, which we are most definitely _not _having and…and…"

Stiles is saved having to come up with more reasons why they are not dating, which he would have no problem with because there are lots, by Derek who is sort of stretching so his shirt strains across his chest and his jeans sort of highlight his thighs and he smiles up at Stiles, all shining eyes and cheekbones, and isn't that face some sort of foul?

"We could be having sex," Derek says mildly, and is that his abs flexing _through_ the material of his shirt? Is that even a thing that's possible?

All of Stiles functions shut down because sure, Derek has been a royal pain in his ass but that image… And Derek, well Derek is a clingy mono-emotional octopus but this Derek, sitting there with the sun in his face and his thighs just…yeah…smiling up at Stiles like it'd be the easiest thing in the world to fall into. And maybe it would be. Stiles is still trying to process this new direction when the whole yard explodes in movement.

The Free Huggers seem to be running around at something and snarling? What? Come to think of it, they don't look quite right, like their faces are… And that train of thought is dragged into very sharp clarity when Derek, a fangy, hairy, Neolithic foreheady Derek, drags Stiles behind his body and there is Uncle Peter, lounging against the front door like the DelMonte Man's less scrupulous brother, smiling without concern.

"Come now Derek, no need for that," he chides, an amused smile playing around his lips and yeah, Derek has claws which are slowly tearing the fabric of Stiles shirt. Panicked because, you know, CLAWS, Stiles struggles but Derek just snarls, a bone-jarring sound, and digs in deeper until ten sharp points are blanching Stiles skin white.

"I wouldn't struggle there, Firecracker," Uncle Peter points out, like Stiles hadn't already figured that out for himself, "It tends to make young Derek here jittery."

"What are you doing?" Derek says, except 'say' is a bit generous for the way the words come out around his fangs (_fangs!)_ and not to be an 18th century maid here or anything, but Stiles is starting to feel a little light-headed.

"A small distraction," Peter grins, gesturing at the yard where everything seems to have quietened down. "Just making sure the boy knows what he's getting into." Then he's walking straight past them and sauntering across the lawn, whistling, ignoring the death looks Laura is shooting him.

They stand for a good five minutes whilst Derek removes his extra appendages from Stiles clothing and gets them under control. After another minute of Derek's tense back, he sort of half turns, looking sheepish and rubbing the back of his neck with a hand that had claws. Has Stiles mentioned claws? Because CLAWS.

Derek coughs nervously.

"I may have neglected to mention something."

Fucking fuck _everything_.

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I have no idea what my life is right now. No idea at all.**  
**I feel I am losing my mojo with this so there'll probably be one more part and I can't say for sure when. The crack is leaving me. I am sad.**  
**This is a little longer than the other two parts but Peter's creepiness demands time, okay?**

**Nothing is mine.**

* * *

Stiles has been avoiding all things Free Huggy so it isn't exactly thrilling to find Derek standing by his jeep. And Laura. And creepy Uncle Peter. Stiles sort of stumbles on his feet before continuing on at a _much_ slower pace.

"Stiles," Laura says, smiling gently and yeah, Stiles heart rate is probably creeping up because that tone cannot mean anything good.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, gruff, but Stiles holds up a hand.

"No. Hairy liars do not get to speak."

"I did not lie," Derek contests hotly but Stiles throws his hand again, stopping Derek in his tracks.

"You omitted a pretty big, toothy, howly part of your personality. In this case that's exactly the same as lying." Derek sort of cringes but Stiles does not feel bad. He does not.

"Stiles," Creepy Uncle Peter starts but no. Just no.

"And you," Stiles rounds on him, ignoring the way Peter's eyebrows arch in a way that certainly suggests amusement, "Don't you talk to me you lechy old man."

"I'm hurt," Peter deadpans, hand to his chest. Stiles sticks out his tongue. Childish but effective. Whatever.

"If everyone is finished." Laura's voice is stone and Stiles head dips in deference before he remembers that she doesn't own him, okay?

"Stiles," she starts again and he jumps. Laura's eyes are soft, too soft. Stiles gets defensive immediately. None of this is looking good for him.

"What?"

Derek is staring at him and Peter is staring at him and Laura is staring at him and, honestly, Stiles ass is feeling a bit sweaty under all the attention. Derek's nose twitches and Stiles is not registering that because he fears his brain will break.

"Stiles, we have a … situation." Laura is picking her way very delicately around her words and Stiles is starting to panic.

"I'm here to woo you, Stiles," Peter interjects smoothly, like it's the most normal thing in the world and not the most horrific. Derek growls. Peter smirks but mostly ignores him.

"Wait, what?" Stiles asks, looking from werewolf to werewolf (_?!_), "I get to choose if I want someone to woo me. And who says woo?"

Peter is smiling like the benevolent dictator he is and Derek, well Derek is still glaring evil glares at the side of Peter's head. Nothing new there.

"Wait, I _do_ get a choice, right?"

Peter's smile somehow gets even more benevolent, and that just creeps Stiles out right down to his bones, and Derek sort of shuffles in place without actually moving and stares at his hands, looking vaguely guilty.

"Of course you get a choice," Laura breaks in, snarling at both her brother and her uncle. Stiles breathes again because _fucking hell_! "You always have a choice, Stiles." Laura's voice is calm, like she's trying to settle a spooked animal and really, she kind of is because Stiles feels a bit like his head is going to fly off.

"It didn't occur to you that if you appeal to one Hale then you might just appeal to another?" Peter says, all condescending, and Stiles kind of wants to junk punch him.

"No." Stiles says because it feels like the only thing he can say. "No."

He's still terrified that his stalky Free Hugger is a werewolf (_?!_) and trying to woo him (no, seriously, who says that?) without another werewolf (_?!_), who is also the first werewolf's (_?!_) uncle, trying to woo him too. Yeah, Stiles is definitely having a nervous breakdown.

"Just breathe." Derek's voice is gruff and his hands are gentle and, weirdly, it does sort of calm Stiles down from his imminent freakout. At least it does right up until the point that Stiles realises he's being gentled like some sort of foal by a werewolf (_?!_) and promptly freaks the fuck out again.

Also, he really wishes his head would stop doing that exclamation thing every time he thinks the word werewolf. (_?!_).

"This is not happening," Stiles moans.

"Oh I assure you it is," Peter interjects, amused and sort of…pushy? Laura growls and Peter steps back again, tipping his head. She sighs and tries to smile but it looks sort of off on her face.

"Look Stiles," she starts, her face all earnest, "We have a…situation. Derek is…amenable to you. And so is Peter." Derek is growling low in his throat and Stiles brain is breaking because this is not a normal conversation to be having on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday afternoons are meant for relaxation and xbox. They are not meant for butt-clenching conversations with Broody McEyebrows and his dashing Creepy Uncle. Also, amenable? That's what we're going with?

"I don't want…" but Laura raises a hand and the words choke in Stiles throat. He does not miss Derek eyeing him like he'd enjoy something else choking Stiles throat. And Stiles did not just have that thought because horrifying and not arousing at all! No arousal here!

"Stiles, please," Laura says, looking older than Stiles has ever seen her. "I'll forbid them from approaching you if you wish but I would urge you to at least consider allowing them to court you so that you can make an informed choice."

Stiles is gaping because Derek is sort of whining a little bit and even Peter is giving him puppy-dog eyes and Stiles just has no idea what his life is right now.

"Please," Laura says and her voice is just so…and her face is just so…oh Goddamnit, Stiles is doing this, isn't he? Laura beams and Peter winks and even Derek's mouth twitches in a way that suggests pleasure.

"You won't regret this," Peter says and Stiles seriously doubts that, he really does.

**0o0o0o**

"I am very much at my part-time job, that I need to survive the hell known as high school," Stiles snaps through the side of his mouth at the werewolves (_?!_) standing at his shoulders, "I do not have time for your freaky … _instincts_ right now."

Peter chuckles, no he actually chuckles like some sort of toothy Father Christmas, and strokes the back of Stiles neck with a fingertip. STROKES HIS NECK. Derek snarls and people are looking at them, oh my fucking God. So many people are looking.

Stiles whirls round and bats Peter's hand away, whilst simultaneously shoving at Derek's chest because personal space is a thing that he likes, damnit!

"No. This is not happening. There will be no touching and no work stalking and you will both behave like adults because I WILL NOT HAVE THIS." Stiles is panting and the whole room is looking and both werewolves (_?!_) are looking uncomfortable and concerned and Stiles just wants to hide away forever.

"Customers are not allowed behind the counter, Stiles," his manager snarks, like Stiles has a choice in any of this, (fucking Laura, that sweet, lovely _liar_), and then stumbles back hastily when both Peter and Derek take issue with his tone and bare their teeth.

"No. Out."

To Stiles incredible surprise, both werewolves (_?!_) comply, backing out into the main shop. Peter looks around until everyone stops staring. It does not take long.

"Good," Stiles said, oddly breathless, "Now go away."

"I'll be back to pick you up this evening," Peter interjects smoothly, "We're going to dinner."

Stiles passes the woman at the front of the queue her coffee and vaguely hears her say she asked for tea but most of his brain is made up of WTF so he's finding it hard to care. He can see Derek's hands clenching and thinks that bones are probably snapping. He looks up at Peter but Peter is wearing that stubborn expression that looks like a version of Derek's stubborn expression and Stiles knows there is zero point in arguing.

"Fine," he whisper-snaps and ignores Derek's hurt expression because fucking really?

Also, he isn't sure whether to be pleased that his brain has downgraded its werewolf panic or alarmed. (_?!_)

**0o0o0o**

The restaurant is intimidatingly posh and Stiles feels like an idiot dressed in the tux Peter brought him, making him change in the shop bathroom like a teenager hiding things from his parents. Oh wait, he _is _a teenager hiding things from his parents. Well, parent, but that parent is the Sheriff so it may as well be parents.

The maître de shows them to their table and Peter pulls out Stiles chair and waits while Stiles sort of freaks out and hovers for a minute before sitting. Peter beams.

"You know I'm not a girl, right?" Stiles hisses and Peter's smile turns … well, the only way Stiles can describe it is politely lecherous. He takes a good look at Stiles body from where he's standing, eyes pausing significantly on Stiles crotch. His eyes, when they return to Stiles face, are noticeably darker.

"Oh yes, I am quite aware of that."

Oh. My. God.

Stiles face is the colour of beetroot and he doesn't need to see it to know it because he can feel his skin glowing from the heat of his embarrassment. Peter leans over his head for a brief moment and sniffs. Yes, that was a sniff. His eyes are a bit more feral after and Stiles flaps his hands in the direction of the unoccupied chair.

"Sit down," he hisses, face getting redder although he has no idea how that can be because nobody has this much blood in their system, "Just, oh my God, sit down."

Peter does as asked but he's in his seat less than ten seconds before he's hooking his foot around Stiles ankle and tugging until their legs are tangled from the calves down. Stiles glances, horrified, at the table-top like he can see through it and tries to tug his foot back but Peter has gotten his claws…no! no, not claws, bad word choice!... Peter has decided that Stiles foot is staying put. And it does. For the rest of the evening.

**0o0o0o**

Stiles has literally never been so happy to see home. His evening had been full of the bad touch - Peter stroking his wrist and insisting on feeding him bites of food with his fingers, making sure to brush Stiles lips and Stiles is pretty sure he's going to be traumatised for the rest of his life.

The end of the evening was a lesson in avoiding Peter's lips because he did go for first base, and on Stiles own porch! Stiles is still reeling from the wet of Peter's mouth against his cheekbone as he stumbles up the steps to his bedroom and finds a glowy-eyed Derek waiting for him.

"You smell like Peter," Derek growls and it's a mark of Stiles brain-damage that the first thing he does is not head for the shower like a rational human being, oh no, he goes straight for Derek and burrows into his arms. He only realises once it's done and Derek is purring down happily at him, all warm body and surprisingly comforting arms and fuck, this has gotten worse than even Stiles thought. See? Traumatised.

Derek touches him but is still growling low before he starts tugging Stiles in, yep, the direction of his shower. The very direction Stiles should have gone in in the first place.

"Uh, Derek?" he absolutely does not squeak as Derek drags him across the tiles. Stiles _will_ admit to squeaking when Derek starts tugging at his clothes.

"Derek, what the hell?!" Stiles tries to bat Derek's hands away but the big freak has freaky supernatural powers at his disposal and Stiles is divested of his shirt with his jeans around his knees before he can blink.

"This is not acceptable behaviour!" Stiles yelps, kicking out but with his jeans where they are, he just ends up landing hard on his butt. Derek looks down at him with this face that suggests he thinks Stiles is just the absolute worst, before he starts shucking off his own clothes.

"Derek you need to use your words because I am about three seconds from screaming werewolf rape," Stiles says slow and clear to make sure it sinks through Derek's thick skull. Derek rolls his eyes.

"We are having a shower."

"Um…" but that's all Stiles gets out because Derek is tugging him up and leaning over to turn the water on, bare chest pressed solid against Stiles. Bare chest. Derek is bare chested and now he is taking off his jeans.

"Stop!" Stiles covers his eyes because seeing Derek's junk once is quite enough and Derek sighs loudly before yanking off his socks.

"You can keep your underwear on," he says in a way that suggests he thinks he's being magnanimous and Stiles doesn't get the chance to punch Derek's stupidly well-defined abs like he wants to because Derek is hauling him into the shower.

The water is…well, the water is pretty nice when you get right down to it. Derek is crowded right up against Stiles back and Stiles is right under the water and it's a complete horror story to admit but this is the most comfortable he's felt all damn night.

Bugger.

Derek is…Derek is soaping Stiles skin, firm and thorough, and Stiles just submits to it, and clearly he's had some sort of head trauma but he doesn't even have the urge to fight it. It's…nice. Derek's fingers are digging into Stiles skin, making him groan and curl his body in a way that gives Derek more skin to work with because clearly Stiles is a massage slut and he doesn't even care.

Then Derek puts his mouth on Stiles shoulder.

Stiles flails away, his wrist smacking Derek around the side of his head and oww! Derek grabs him and tries to hold him still but Stiles is slippery from the water and from the soap so he manages to slide out of Derek's hands and squishes himself back against the tiles, eyeing the werewolf warily.

"No. Bad. Down."

"Because I like you Stiles, I'm going to pretend that wasn't a dog joke."

From the tone of Derek's voice, Stiles thinks that's probably a good thing so he just breezes on by it like it never happened. What? It NEVER happened.

"Do you want Peter to court you, Stiles?" Derek's voice goes sort of dangerous when he says Peter but Stiles brain, predictably, has latched somewhere else.

"Courting, Derek? Really?" Has Stiles stumbled into some sort of romance novel? Do werewolves have elaborate eighteenth century language for dating? Have they missed modernisation? Is Stiles insulting Derek and all his brethren by picking up on this stuff? Also, brethren? Stiles needs to have serious words with his brain right now.

"Do. You. Want. Peter. Courting. You."

"No!" Stiles answers quickly, mostly because ewww and oh no but partly because he's afraid Derek might be breaking his teeth with all that manly jaw clenching he's rocking.

"I can't stop him," Derek says and wow isn't _that_ painful for him to say, "but I can make it very difficult for him."

Stiles is nodding because he is on board with any plan that keeps Peter's hands to himself as much as possible. Look, it isn't that he has such low self-esteem that he'd rather Derek's cave-man approach, okay? Any other time Stiles would be all up for Peter's brand of dating, it's just…he gets the feeling there's more to Peter than Stiles could ever possibly handle okay? And Stiles has no intention of becoming some werewolf's trophy…boyfriend? Husband? Non-wolf partner? Whatever, point is, Peter gives off some serious 'aren't you a pretty little thing' vibes and Stiles is not buying.

Derek is mouthing his shoulder again which drags Stiles right back out of his head. He squirms but Derek grabs his waist, holding him still as he licks over and over at Stiles skin.

"Umm…"

"I need to cover everywhere Peter left his scent," Derek rumbles against Stiles neck, licking where Peter's pinkie had traced, "I need to cover it."

Stiles wants to make some sort of joke about broken records but his brain is fizzing because Derek's tongue is there, on his skin, lapping. Lapping. LAPPING.

"I…uhh…I…"

Stiles mouth is flapping uselessly because Derek's dropping and his mouth is on Stiles ankle, licking all over where Peter's foot had been and Stiles is kinda grateful to Peter right now. What? No, no he is NOT. This should not be hot. This is NOT hot. This is just Derek helping Stiles stay out of Peter's wolfy hands. This is just…Derek's tongue on Stiles thigh. Because Peter's hand had briefly rested there so no big deal, no big deal at all. Except Derek kneels up and his face is right there. At Stiles crotch. Where Stiles boner is.

There is a pause, a very hair-raising pause, in which Stiles is wondering whether he can dive from the shower and get out of the room before Derek can stop him. Somehow he doubts it but he eyes the edge of the tub anyway.

"Would you like me to deal with that?" Derek's voice is all husky and what now?

"No. Absolutely no need at all. No thank you."

Derek just sort of hovers there and Stiles thinks the world must hate him because Derek's warm breath is ghosting the wet fabric of his boxers and Stiles dick is twitching. Stiles can only watch in horror as the tip bats Derek gently on the nose. Oh. My. GOD. Derek's eyebrows twitch in response. He looks up at Stiles, eyes hot and glowy, and his face is suggesting that he's considering just going for it anyway, so Stiles knees him in the face.

"No!"

Derek groans but moves on, being very careful to ignore Stiles hideously obvious boner. Once he's happy Peter's smell is covered, Derek stands up and pulls Stiles in front of him.

"Just one more thing," he murmurs, tugging at Stiles boxers until they're just hovering below the swell of his ass. Stiles squeaks but Derek doesn't tug them any further. It takes Stiles a few minutes to realise that the rhythmic beat against his upper buttocks is Derek's hand. _Derek who is jerking off over Stiles ass_.

"Are you serious right now?" Stiles shrieks but Derek just speeds up, gripping the back of Stiles neck until hot spurt after hot spurt hits his bare skin.

"Was that really necessary?" Stiles asks after an indeterminate time of Derek panting into his hair and Stiles trying desperately to ignore the way his dick is just _throbbing_ between his thighs.

"You sure you don't want me to…" Derek starts in response but Stiles shakes his head vigorously.

"Nope! No thank you very much!"

Most awkward shower non-sex ever. Damn Free Huggers.

**0o0o0o**

"Well, this is a turn-up," Peter says, looming over Stiles, dripping water onto his chest. Stiles yelps and scrambles away from the edge of the pool. Peter sort of sniffs and his lips briefly peel away from his teeth before his usual pleasant expression settles. Stiles can _sense_ Derek's smugness so he swings an arm back and is rewarded by a low grunt. Stiles is remorseless because that's what happens to creepers with no sense of personal space.

"I see my nephew has been treating you to his own version of a courtship." Peter's teeth flash and Stiles jugular winces in sympathy. "Well, I can certainly keep up with that."

Derek, being the ninja freak he is, is out of the pool and toe-to-toe with Peter in a flash. Peter looks vaguely amused and Stiles would like to be looking anywhere but at Derek's ass, where his black trunks are just sort of…clinging. There is clinging going on. Wet clinging. It's…distracting. There is nose twitching and then both werewolves are turning to look at him but he is saved from supernatural embarrassment by Lydia Martin sweeping in like the superhero she is and stepping neatly between the two men.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Her voice is sweet but Stiles has seen her use that voice to make men cry so tone can be deceiving when it comes to Lydia.

"Well, aren't you a delightful treat," Peter purrs and what now? Stiles _knew_ that was a line! Not that he's upset or anything that Creepy Uncle Peter is raking his gaze all over Lydia Martin's bathing suit like he has x-ray eyes, (shit, werewolves don't do they?), it's just…maybe he thought he was special alright? No shame in that.

Lydia, because she's just as bamf as bamf can be, smiles brightly, rakes her eyes over Peter's admittedly impressively well-kept body, leans close and says, "Don't think I won't throw your ass out of this pool, _Sir_."

Peter is gone. Stiles can see it. Peter is utterly star-struck and Lydia is sashaying away and Derek is looking at Stiles like he's the last ice-pop in the desert.

"Don't look so pleased," Stiles grouses, "You only won by default."

He only realises what he's said when he gets 180 pounds of muscle wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. Fucking werewolves.

**0o0o0o**

Stiles stomps indoors and kicks his shoes off like they've mortally offended him. They thump the far wall and Derek is looking at him, his eyebrows suggesting he's perplexed by Stiles behaviour. Well, whatever. Derek was the one that dragged him to dinner with Peter and Lydia, who are apparently the new black, and made him watch as they cooed over each other and Peter fed her from his plate and just yeuch. Derek tried it. Stiles bit him. Unoriginal fucker.

"Stiles," Derek says as Stiles flops on the couch, pissed and out of sorts.

"What?" Stiles snaps back, choking in shock when Derek's head makes a surprise appearance between his thighs.

"What the hell?" he yells, trying to shove Derek's head away but Derek just pins his wrists to his thigh with one hand and bites his hip. Stiles gasps because, okay, he _might_ have a biting kink. Don't judge, okay?It's new. It's not a big deal!

"Stiles," Derek repeats and yeah, on a normal person that would sound like Batman with a throat infection but on Derek it sounds like skin and sweat and…other slick things.

As Stiles watches, eyes wide, Derek grins and nuzzles his boner through his jeans. It is sheer force of will that stops Stiles coming on the spot. Derek grins again, a wild, feral thing, and goes for Stiles buttons. Stiles doesn't stop him, doesn't even try because quite frankly a blowjob from a hot piece of ass like Derek is the least that he deserves after putting up with this fuckery.

Of course this is Stiles life so it's just when his jeans and boxers are at his knees and Derek is looking ready to quit cock-teasing and get down to sucking that the Sheriff bursts downstairs, hair sleep mussed, shotgun in hand. Okay, so maybe Stiles had been moaning like a two-dollar whore. Whatever.

Derek, because he is a socially inept fucking idiot who apparently has never met another human being ever, never mind one who is a father and a Sheriff and also _holding a shotgun_, wolfs out and tries to crowd over Stiles body. Naturally the Sheriff shoots him.

Motherfucking fuck EVERYTHING.

* * *

**Thanks for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

**All the crack, all the time. As ever, zilch belongs to me.**

* * *

"I'm courting your son, sir," Derek says.

"Courting?" The Sheriff replies, eyebrows raised, "Who says courting in this day and age?"

"Thank you!" Stiles calls from where he's trying to scrub blood from the sofa cushions. Of course he'd get this job. Of course Derek, despite superwolfy healing, would bleed like a bitch first. Stiles arms are aching. Then he winces and shoots a guilty glance at Derek because Derek _does_ have a hole in his shoulder. Derek who is frowning back at him like he can read minds. God, Stiles hopes that isn't a werewolf power.

Stiles Dad is poking at that shoulder with a pair of tweezers and Stiles ignores the sort of squelchy noise because he is far too busy making sure their couch doesn't end up looking like an extra in a drive-by to spare time for throwing up right now.

"Gotcha," the Sheriff says triumphantly, holding up a rather mangled bullet like it's an amazing discovery, like he wasn't the one who put it there in the first place. Stiles watches his Dad's face as his Dad watched the wound on Derek's shoulder knit together like something out of those late night Sci-Fi's his Dad is always giving him judgy eyebrows over.

"Bet you're grateful I made you watch those films now, huh?" Stiles crows but the Sheriff is too busy gaping, open-mouthed, at Derek's now non-holey shoulder to pay attention to Stiles awesome rightness. Whatever.

"So," the Sheriff says when he's had his fill of gawking, "Werewolves then?"

"What?" Stiles squawks because something in his brain goes into damage control without his permission. "What are you talking about? Too much coffee? You know, bacon overdoses have been known to bring on hallucinations…wait, you haven't been eating bacon, have you?!"

Both Derek and his Dad are giving him the Mightily Unimpressed mouth-frown and Stiles just sags into the, let's face it, completely ruined couch. He takes a minute to just reflect because seriously, his _life_.

"You need to replace this," Stiles says petulantly, waving an arm at the blood-drenched cushions and Derek just nods, his non-emoting face throwing concern in Stiles direction. Fuck everything that Stiles even knows that.

The Sheriff is looking between the two of them wearing a sharp, calculating expression, and Stiles just accepts that he isn't getting out of the Talk he can see brewing, and that it is going to be horrific. His Dad would never do anything less.

Stiles throws a spare shirt in Derek's face, then tries hard (and mostly unsuccessfully) not to laugh when it creaks as he attempts to settle his bulk on the wooden stool beside Stiles. Actually creaks, like the stitching is protesting its lot in life. Quite frankly, it can get in damn line.

The Sheriff is standing across the table from them and now he's wearing his I-Am-Going-To-Get-Answers face. This does not bode well, not at all.

"This the guy I've been getting reports of you PDA'ing all over town with?" is not the start Stiles is expecting. He chokes violently on his mouthful of juice. Derek darts forward like he thinks Stiles is gonna try and throw himself off his stool and leave Derek alone against Interrogation Face, and it's inevitable that the shirt Derek is wearing takes that exact moment to decide it's too good for this ridiculousness, ripping right across the shoulders and down both arms. Derek gives a sort of yip and falls backwards off his stool, taking Stiles down with him in a messy pile.

HIS LIFE.

**0o0o0o **

"Werewolf?" Scott's face is a picture of confusion, which would be hilarious except Stiles is already bored of this conversation and also he has been scarred by his Dad and it's the kind of scarred that needs to be shared.

"Small part," Stiles assures and upends his backpack onto Scott's bed. Scott, still looking like the most baffled puppy of the bunch, bless his little crooked jaw, picks up the piece of paper closest to his knee, squints at it, then drops it like it has herpes.

"Oh my God," he moans, hands covering his eyes but Stiles is not having that because Scott is his best friend damnit, and he WILL go through this with him.

"There's this one." He picks out the one that's definitely giving him nightmares tonight and holds it out. When Scott refuses to uncover his eyes, or even acknowledge Stiles, Stiles takes a deep breath and starts to read.

"When an animal knots, it can take…"

"NO NO NO NO NO," Scott starts yelling over Stiles grim voice, snatching the paper out of his friend's hand and stuffing it behind his bed as if out of sight, it never happened. His eyes are huge and horrified.

"This is my life," Stiles says but it comes out more of a wail and Scott nods sympathetically, which turns into a flail and a pinwheeling tumble off his bed when Derek growls from his perch half-in, half-out Scott's window. Stiles isn't even surprised any more, he just leans down and pats Scott's head comfortingly.

"Not cool, man."

Derek shrugs before stepping over Scott and sliding behind Stiles, wrapping him up in an arm-burrito, snuffling his neck. Just…urgh.

**0o0o0o **

"It's lovely to meet you," Laura smiles warmly at the Sheriff, who just nods back like he's reserving judgement. Wise man, his Dad. The rest of the pack, (seriously, _pack_), come in and start hugging the Sheriff like this is totally normal behaviour and not cultish at all. Stiles smacks him palm to his forehead … at least that's what he tries to do, except Peter is right there, fingers warm on Stiles pulse-point.

"Ah ah," he admonishes, winking, "Derek will be ever so upset if you do that pretty face damage."

Before Stiles can even deal with that particular fuckery, Lydia appears at his side, snarling and scrabbling his wrist out of Peter's grip, throwing it hard enough that it hits Stiles chest with a thump. Just, ow!

"Hands off," she snaps, eyes wild, "One hot werewolf is enough for you. This one is mine."

"Isn't she exquisite?" Peter asks over her head, face all soft like this is a perfectly reasonable way to react and not the sign of some sort of break with sanity. Lydia still looks pissed but Peter is stroking her hair and the murdery light in her eyes seems to be dimming. Stiles knows it's a clusterfuck of a day when he's contemplating thanking Lechy Uncle Peter.

"You touched my mate."

Stiles makes sure his sigh is audible to everyone, even his Dad who seems to be getting hug-smothered by a very enthusiastic Isaac. Man, Stiles needs to keep an eye on that. A very very damaged eye.

Derek's face is starting to look a bit feral and his voice is growly, and Peter is actually starting to look alarmed and that cannot be good for anyone. Stiles puts a hand on Derek's chest just as Peter yanks Lydia behind him.

"Down." Stiles voice is firm but he didn't expect a deadly hush to fall across the entire yard. Derek is eyeballing him and not in the good way.

"Was that a dog joke?" someone pipes up and just, really, fuck _everything_.

**0o0o0o**

"You're serious about this…Werewolf thing?"

Stiles swallows his toast the wrong way and his Dad spends a few frantic minutes beating it back out of his oesophagus before Stiles can properly respond.

"It is not reasonable to ambush me at seven in the morning," Stiles snaps reproachfully but his voice sounds like someone took some sandpaper to his vocal chords. Ever since he got dubiously hugged by a werewolf, Stiles share of painstakingly stupid ailments had shot through the roof.

"He seems pretty serious about you." His Dad's words are clear but his face is dubious. "It's just, weren't you in love with the Martin girl until about a month ago?"

"It wasn't love," Stiles grouses, glaring at his orange juice, "It was one-sided pining. Besides after Peter dropped me for her, that boat sailed into the werewolfy sunset."

"Peter?" The Sheriff's voice has a dangerous note and Stiles wishes he could metaphorically punch himself in the face.

"Uh…there was maybe a thing?" he offers.

His Dad is on the phone to Derek in a shot.

**0o0o0o**

When they pull up for the monthly pack meet - "you're pack now Stiles," Derek had rumbled at him like he was joining a biker gang and was coming to get his colours - Derek's there, opening his door before the jeep has fully stopped.

"Stiles."

His hands are on Stiles body like he thinks bits of it might have gone missing between him climbing out of Stiles window an hour ago, and the very awkward drive Stiles just endured here with his Dad. His Dad is the Sheriff okay? And Derek is not as stealthy as he thinks. In fact Derek is a little come-stupid. But whatever.

Laura waves from the porch as Stiles is trying to unlatch Derek Of The Octopus Arms and his Dad is waving back, wilfully ignoring his son being molested three feet away.

Stiles sees Lydia and nods a greeting at her but she bares her teeth and grabs Peter's arm, hauling him away into the house. She's probably still sore about the whole shooting thing. Stiles _did_ try to explain that his Dad had previous knowledge of Werewolf healing ability but she wasn't buying. Stiles just hopes Peter talks her out of whatever revenge plans he _knows_ she's brewing.

"It's good to see you here," Laura says, and she's addressing both Stilinski's, which Stiles is super grateful for. Truth is, he would never go where his Dad wasn't welcome. Derek is still trying to climb him like a tree, like public decency isn't a thing that's real, so Stiles misses what Laura says next, but he sure hears what his Dad says in reply.

"Well, I sort of wanted Grandkids," the Sheriff says, looking a little wistfully at the cubs, _goddamnit kids_!, running about the lawn. Stiles winces.

"All of our cubs will be your grandchildren," Laura points out, voice warm and fond like Stiles Dad has said something he gets points for.

"Yeah," the Sheriff says but his tone is resigned and sort of regretful. It tugs as Stiles heart. Of course, Stiles might be having an epiphany of disappointment but he doesn't miss the 'shut-the-fuck-up' looks Laura is throwing at Derek. Derek who, yeah, is gonna ignore them and barrel right on in. Typical.

"I wouldn't worry about that, sir," he says, voice all sincere but Stiles isn't exactly paying full attention at this point. Of course his Dad would want grandkids, why hadn't he thought of that?

"Wolves have a certain…ability when it comes to mating."

Like, his Dad had always wanted more kids, Stiles _knew_ this, but for obvious reasons, it ended up only being Stiles. It makes perfect sense that he was imagining a clutch of little Stilinski's to sugar up in his retirement.

"When Stiles and I are fully mated, he will be able to bear your grandchildren."

The Sheriff's face is a sort of puce colour and Laura seems to be choking and Derek's face is very serious, which Stiles thinks is a bit of an overreaction all round because there is still surrogation or adoption. Shit, can werewolves adopt? Would they have to declare that? Would it come under diseases or ailments? Family history maybe? Maybe they had their own adoption agencies?

Stiles turns to ask Derek but gets distracted by the way his Dad is staring at him, sort of horrified but also sort of hopeful. Oh Gods, he's gonna want Stiles to adopt so many children that he's gonna be elbow-deep in diapers til he's fifty.

Fuckity fu…

Wait, WHAT?

**FIN**

* * *

**So this is the final part of this particular series. Hope you guys enjoyed the ride into my madness as much as I did. As ever, thank you for reading.  
**


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